No Miracles
by Lorata
Summary: ("They win it almost every year, but-" / "Almost.") District 2 doesn't always bring it home. The hard part is watching from the mentor seat. [Devon POV]
The plastic headset creaks under the pressure of Devon's fingers, and he lets go before he snaps it. Onscreen Electra has dragged herself up onto the rocks, the blood glistening black against the stone; flies buzz around her and her head has lolled backwards, eyes closed and chest heaving shallowly, but she's alive. Alive and out of reach of the mutts prowling the ground, no doubt sent to finish her off after Seven's axe didn't do the job. Devon has time.

Not a lot of time, but in the Games even seconds count.

Seconds that the voice on the end of the line is wasting with all this pointless arguing. Devon flips the microphone up and away from his face as he struggles to keep his breathing even. In front of him Electra's vitals are dropping; meanwhile Seven has melted into the trees, long gone; Devon doesn't bother trying to sneak a glance at Blight's screen to check her location. None of that matters if Electra can't pull through in the next few minutes, and the flashing warnings at the bottom of his screen mean the cannons are close.

But not yet. Not yet.

"I have the funds," Devon says, driving a pen into his leg and using the pain to distract himself so his voice stays calm and even. Nothing pushes the Gamemakers into belligerent mode like desperation; even with his girl bleeding out right in front of him, he has to act as though they're doing him a favour - which, if they'd actually do what he's asking, they would be. "The amount should be preauthorized. Electra's fan base has been very generous this year."

"The question isn't about whether you have the funds," the man on the other line says. "These are not your first Games, Devon, I shouldn't have to explain this to you. If you Twos were able to use everything at your disposal without discretion, there would be very little point, now wouldn't there? The question is whether you have the authorization to change the narrative."

That's what he thought. It's Seven's story now, ever since she dropped from the trees into the middle of the Two camp while they slept and buried her axe in Electra's stomach. Electra's district partner left her gasping in the dirt - of course he did, she would've done the same, one glance at that wound and obviously she's a goner - to chase after Seven. He got her once across the ribs and once right in the face with his knife, and he would have had her - should have had her - except his ankle turned on a root and he tripped, going down hard. Seven's remaining hatchet found his skull before he had the chance to pull himself to his feet.

His cannon fired immediately, and Seven limped off in search of the others, blood streaming from her eye and soaking through her shirt. Her tears had long dried, her face twisted into a rictus of half-crazed glee as she wandered out of range of Artemisia's screen.

The Capitol went wild, and since then, Devon hasn't been able to push through a single sponsor gift.

"It's not changing any narrative," Devon says, and his voice turns to steel before he can pull it back. He imagines the Gamemaker's eyebrows creeping up his forehead in response, and Devon bites back a curse and digs the pen deeper into his thigh. "There is no narrative, not until the trumpets play. Everything is always in flux and nothing is sure, that's textbook Games rules. What excitement would there be if anything was a sure thing?"

"If a tribute is on the verge of death and her mentor sends down a magic cure-all kit, then yes, that does change the narrative. Victory is earned, not handed down on a parachute. Your tribute has played a good game, but 7F outplayed her. That's the way it goes."

Devon holds his breath, just for a second, and a frisson runs through him. "I'm not asking for a magic cure-all," he says. "I'm not talking about sending a tent and a camping stove in the middle of a blizzard, I'm talking about a box of matches. Give her something to close the wound and stave off infection, that's all I need."

Another pause, during which Electra's vitals plunge even further. Devon bites back another plea because that will end it, Career mentors are only allotted a small amount of desperation and he's gone way beyond, if he begs now then it really will be over. Begging works for the President if he's in a good mood, if the spectacle of someone on their knees is amusing enough to warrant magnanimity. The Gamemakers are never, ever so kind.

Devon's earpiece crackles, warning him of the incoming reply before the voice cuts back in. "Request denied," he says, voice clipped. "Better luck next year."

The others are watching except for Blight, glued to his console and following his tribute with a single-minded intensity, and Devon exhales. They'll be watching to see what happens when golden-tongued Devon doesn't get what he wants, after years of watching him bleed sponsors of their money with little more than a wink and a smile. He can't blame them — or, well, he won't in a few months, when the pain dulls and he's capable of rational thought again.

"Understood," Devon says, swallowing the rage like a mouthful of poison and managing not to choke on it. He tugs down his headset, letting the earphones drop to his collarbones. He shuts off the main feed, puts Electra's image on his personal console and tugs his knees up to his chest. The cup of coffee at his elbow has long gone cold, congealed to a thick sludge, and Devon picks up the mug and cradles it in his hands to give himself something to do other than peel at the sides of his nails.

"I'm sorry," he says in a low voice. Stupid, useless words, she can't hear him and it wouldn't matter even if she could. Words won't close the wound and fight off sepsis, better to keep them inside and save everyone the embarrassment of useless babble. Devon abandons his coffee again and presses his fingers to the screen, resting his hand on Electra's head.

It's not long. Electra doesn't move from life to death, no beatific sighs, no head slump and eyes falling gently closed like in drama films. Electra's eyes are wide and glassy, her mouth hanging slightly open, her fingers still clutching weakly at the wound in her abdomen. The console shrieks with warnings as she goes into arrest, and the cannon fires without more than a twitch onscreen.

Devon closes his eyes, swallowing the tang of acid, and he doesn't watch as the corpse-crafts descend but he waits until the console alerts Devon that his responsibilities have ended for the duration of the Games. He pushes himself up out of his chair and leaves the room without looking back. The small, dark part of himself he tries not to think about wonders whether it would be better if Blight's girl wins, making Electra's sacrifice not in vain, or if he'd feel better knowing someone else accidentally avenged her. The louder, rational part reminds him it doesn't matter either way.

The Centre will be cross-referencing the Reaping data with the Program files to find Electra's parents and invite them to the interment, at least there's that responsibility off his shoulders, but then again it also means less for Devon to occupy his mind with.

It's not his first loss, and odds are it will not be his last. Devon's first boy went down against the girl from One, and maybe his next will fall in a rockslide or an avalanche or a freak flooding. Two has lost tributes who fought harder than Electra, and he saw the readouts scrolling across his screen. Even if he had gotten the all-clear to send her medicine, she would have had to take it herself, and patch herself up, and that's assuming the infection hadn't already spread.

Still, though.

Devon's halfway to the residential complex when he about-faces and heads for the back door instead. He slips out into the streets, avoiding the crush of reporters and their cameras waiting at the front and 'secret' side doors, and takes the first side alley. The Capitol is glitz and glamour and feathers but not everywhere; it has its criminals and underbelly the same as anywhere, and that's where Devon's restless mind drags him.

There will be blood on his knuckles by midnight, and it won't wash away the stains on his conscience but it will stop his mind from buzzing until morning. Devon has tracked this route before; Callista showed him after his first loss, told him where to go and how to walk to attract the right kind of attention, the best ways to avoid the cameras so he won't be splashed on a tabloid front page with some drug dealer's blood on his shirt.

He glances up on the way past the square to see Electra's face displayed on the billboard next to her Games stats, and Devon stops dead, unsure whether to snarl or vomit or try to hurl a rock at the screen from here. Eventually he hunches his shoulders and turns away, leaving the dazzling lights behind him.

He failed Electra, and underneath the mentor's rage is a young Victor's broken plea to his exhausted mentor: do you think she's happy, wherever she is?

Yeah, Brutus had said, placating. Sure, kid.

He hadn't meant it, most likely, but sometimes a comforting lie is all that keeps the bottle on the shelf and the pills in the drawer. Devon touches his fist to his chest and looks up at the sky, awash with the glow from thousands upon thousands of lights.

"Sleep in peace," Devon murmurs, and ducks into the alley. The night is young, and there's blood to be repaid.


End file.
